Pure

Those bony and scrawny fingertips
scrubbing and scouring every
single piece 
of dust and soot
nestled between my toes
and puny soles
imbues me with the
moonlight sheen 
and the milky smell I was born with

You slowly and surely scrub my 
anger, pain and hurt away 
to let in dissolve 
in that turbid water
when the plethora of emotions
are birthing every second in your mind
as you fervently look for the 
scars,
small scratches,
you might have overlooked

As gently as the seraphic touch
on my nimble body
which you have sculpted and nourished
every bit of it
you dissolve every pain
in the small bowl
you wash me in

Pure

For every other soul
it is a mundane task
but
for me,
when you touch me 
with your fecund fingertips
it baptizes me and 
renders my soul pure

Your touch,
my mother,
renders me pure.